


Cruel Summer

by heavvymetalqueen



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Altered Mental States, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Gang Rape, M/M, explicit past ocekaz, hurt/comfort the ocekaz way, implied bosselot, minor vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 01:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12620388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen
Summary: Where is he? Outside. The sun is in his eyes. Somebody is touching his shoulder. It feels like somebody else’s shoulder.Ocelot's hypnosis glitches out sometimes. It's okay, he'll be fine soon.





	Cruel Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leering Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Leering+Dragon).



> For wish #108: "Ocelot’s self-hypnotism glitches him out sometimes. While he’s spaced out and highly suggestible a few male soldiers find him and soon realize they can do anything they want with him. Maybe Ocelot dealt with them in the brig now it’s time for some revenge. I just want this confused and spacey Ocelot to get fucked hard. Nicely, or not so nice."
> 
> I hope you don't mind if I went a bit extra far into the whole altered state!

“Sir? Sir!”

Ocelot slowly raises his eyes towards the voice. The sun is beating on him, so bright, so hot. He can’t make out the face of the man above him.

“...you....kay?”

Where is he? Outside. The sun is in his eyes. Somebody is touching his shoulder. It feels like somebody else’s shoulder.

His feet move, something pulls. The sun isn’t in his eyes anymore, it’s cooler now. He still can’t focus.

It’s okay. It happens sometimes. He’ll be fine soon.

It smells like sweat. It’s all he can breathe. Why is it so hot, the sun isn’t over him anymore.

“....really....out of it, isn’t....?”

“Makes me want.....”

 _want what?_ Ocelot asks, but words are so hard. He’s so tired and the air is so warm and humid, he can’t move.

Hands.

Hands on him. His legs, his chest. Under his shirt. His wrists pinned on metal. Is it....

“John?” he breathes.

It sounds like birds cawing, so many birds, laughing at him. Of course not John. He’s not...John isn’t....

“Bastard starved.....three days....getting back...”

“Let’s show him....”

Ocelot blinks, but it’s just a blur, moving, shifting, rough, heavy, warm.

Maybe it’s....

“Miller....”

“He ain’t coming here,” laugh the birds “we’re....have our fun...”

Stupid birds. He tries to shoo them away and they laugh harder, tries to hit them and his chest is crushed, a kick? Breathing hurts. His head hurts.

The ground is cool.

He’s so hot. He’s melting, leaking, dripping. Tries to swallow, something in his mouth, it’s too big, he can’t breathe.

It’s so deep, shoving into his throat.

They took his gag reflex when he was....how old was he?

Can’t remember.

Body over him, it’s all wrong, it’s not him, it’s not John, it’s not....

He can’t scream, even if it hurts. His voice isn’t his own, and the pain is weird, distant, a dull ache. It ebbs and flows like the sea, wave after wave after wave

Ocelot chokes, acid and salt burning out of his nose. Tears in his eyes, he can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t close his mouth.

He’s melting, hands everywhere, like the coils of a hundred snakes, like the web of a spider. Things are in his body, pushing and pulling and ripping, but it feels like somebody else, like when he closed his eyes in his room and he was not there, he was really on a horse, riding through the desert.

_~ He's the guy who's the talk of the town, with the restless gun... ~_

No, that was later, much later, when he was free, but never really free.

_~ Hey-ho, Silver, away.... ~_

Better. He hums the William Tell Overture. No, not William. Guillaume. You speak French, Adamska. No dinner tonight, just like last night. Take off your clothes, and wait like a good boy.

His knees hurt, his elbows hurt. He feels run through, like a pig on a spitroast, choking and full, burning, crackling, melting, melting, melting

He can finally breathe, drool and cough. He shivers. Where is he? He’s cold now. He’s alone, he still can’t see clearly.

He’s so tired.

He closes his eyes, and melts some more into the cold tarmac.

***

Kaz grunts, pushing his chair back and wobbling to his feet, crutch under him. Ocelot isn’t responding to the fucking radio _again_.

He hobbles his way to the elevator. If he finds him shooting all their good targets into the sea again, so help him god, he’s gonna be the one that ends up in the sea this time.

He keeps buzzing his iDroid, but Ocelot keeps not responding, even after Kaz has stepped out. It’s sunny, so hot almost nobody is around. He leans against the wall, buzzes the iDroid again.

No answer.

In the distance, almost entirely muted by the sound of the waves, a rattle. Like an iDroid vibrating against something.

Kaz angrily limps across the platform. The rattle gets louder. He pushes his way through the thick sheeting to one of the unfinished areas of the platform, careful around the deserted scaffolding.

The rattle continues, even after he sees Ocelot’s limp form on the ground, lying in a puddle of his own sick.

 _Overdose_ , is the first thing he thinks. He’s already halfway through dialing the medical team when he notices Ocelot’s pants down to his knees, the blood and the crusted up semen on his face and thighs.

“Shit,” he hisses. Falls over more than crouch, shakes Ocelot’s shoulder.

Ocelot’s eyes open. He’s got come gunked up even in his lashes. Kaz’s stomach turns.

“Ocelot. Ocelot, are you okay?”

“Miller?”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ocelot blinks. He sits up, wincing. Looks down, up at Kaz. “Huh.”

“Who the fuck did this to you,” snarls Kaz, fighting the nausea and the blood thundering in his ear.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” sputters Kaz. “Somebody raped you! Were you drugged? Do you remember who it was?”

Ocelot tugs on his ripped shirt, ineffectually covering himself. “Nobody raped me, Miller.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Ocelot smiles, cold and smug. “You of all people should know I like it rough.”

“I never left you passed out on the _ground_.”

Ocelot pulls himself to his feet, doing his pants up before absently offering his arm for Kaz to grasp. “You don’t need to concern yourself. Everything that happened here was perfectly consensual.”

Kaz looks at the bruise darkening his cheekbone, and doesn’t believe him at all.

“Would you tell me if somebody...?” He grips Ocelot’s arm a little too tight.

Ocelot hesitates. It’s just a split second, but all of Ocelot’s real emotions are only visible in minute shifts of his expression, and you have to be attuned to them. “Of course,” he says.

“The least thing we need on this base is rapists,” he hisses. “Especially ones that will assault their superior officers.”

Ocelot smiles slowly, cruelly. He rubs his thumb on Kaz’s lips. “Don’t worry, Commander. Nobody will _bad touch_ you again.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he snarls, hitting him in the knee with his crutch.

“Already done for the day, sorry.”

Kaz watches him saunter away. He can’t help but notice the slight limp in his step.

He’s totally lying.

***

Ocelot makes it far enough to hear Miller angrily stomp back to the command tower before leaning over a railing and throwing up. He can’t see it as it hurtles towards the sea but he’s pretty confident it’s mostly semen.

Not his first gang rape rodeo, as it were.

First one he entirely does not remember, though, which is more worrying. He’s sore in all the ways his body recognizes as violent sexual assault, but no memory. Complete blank, just a mess of previous unfortunate encounters making him grip the railing until his gloves creak.

The problem is that Miller is right. Whoever it was, they need to be hung from the toes above the sanitation tank before they do this to somebody else. It's extremely disruptive. But he doesn’t _know_ who it was. How many? What did they do?

Nothing.

“Why can’t I remember?” he asks the sea lapping at the platform’s supports.

With no answer and acid in his throat, Ocelot goes back to work.

***

It’s not until three weeks later, while he’s absently reviewing reports, that he notices three members of combat division dishonorably discharged.

He doesn’t know how Miller did it, or if he’s even right, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

He doesn’t antagonize him for a whole month as thanks.

And the next time his head starts acting up, he goes looking for him.

Gripping the empty sleeve of a not understanding but silently accepting Miller is a much better way to melt away into nothing for a couple of hours.

 


End file.
